“Same thing.”
Not the same thing, Wrath’s eyes taunted, but all he said was, “Have they dug your grave yet?”
Julien scoffed. “I don’t plan on destroying myself along with my enemies.”
“Why not just marry the girl and be done with it. That would be the biggest revenge against that family.”
“You know I won’t ever marry.” He’d made that vow to himself a long time ago, in a hallway that still visited him in his sleep, kneeling over his mother while his hands turned red and useless. He would never be that powerless again. Granted, he was no longer that boy, but attachments made you powerless. He didn’t want any attachments in his life. He just couldn’t . . . He couldn’t ever face the possible pain of losing a loved one again.
His wildflower . . . She was too pure and too innocent to be sullied by the dark shadows that haunted him. He was a petty man. A hard man. A man who kept a list of enemies and crushed them without mercy. In fact, he had no mercy for foes. Only the desire to destroy them. The urge consumed him whole until the deed was done.
He would, ultimately, destroy her, too.
Then let us not meet after this again.
Her words, and he’d agreed to them. Readily. Gratefully, even, because some small, sane corner of him had recognized a gift when it was handed to him—an exit, offered before he could do any real damage.As the lady wishes.Three words, and he’d meant them. He’d told himself he meant them.
The notes in his breast pocket scoffed at him.
So he kept all Frank’s notes on her movements.Thatdidn’t mean a damn thing.
Wrath gave a noncommittal shrug. “I suppose I can give you one of my sons one day for your heir.”
“Get a wife first.”
Wrath chuckled.
A footman in White’s livery approached the table and cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, Your Grace. A note was delivered for you.”
Julien accepted it with a nod, recognizing the hand before he’d even broken the seal. One of his men. Frank. Stationed outside Lady Elowyn’s home. He quickly read the content, eyes lifting to Wrath. “Want to accompany me to a tea party?”
Chapter 8
How could a man’s eyes look so warm and cold at the same time? This was the thought that kept plaguing Elowyn as she bit into an éclair at Lady Ophelia’s garden tea party, trying very hardnotto look at the man who’d just stepped onto the lawn. The one with the burning cold eyes. But she couldfeelhim. Lord, how she could feel him. She didn’t need to stare when her awareness of his every movement was this complete.
WhatwasMandeville doing here?
He didn’t seem like a man who attended these sorts of events. A wolf prowling a flock of sheep. Just like memories of him prowled her mind. She could almost feel the shape of his hands at her waist, the firm line of his arm as if he had already claimed the waltz position and was guiding her through it. Worse, she could imagine the press of his mouth against hers, the warmth of it lingering long after the kiss ended. The thought sent a ridiculous flutter through her stomach, equal parts alarm and something that felt a lot like anticipation.
Persephone sent her a curious glance, eyes sparkling too much for Elowyn’s comfort. She should have joined Isadora in lawn games.
“Don’t give me that look,” she told her friend.
A bubble of laughter. “I’m not giving you any look.”
“You know exactly what look you’re giving me.”
Persephone lifted her brows. “The one that says you have been struck dumb by a handsome man and trying your best to pretend you haven’t been?”
Elowyn nearly choked on her indrawn breath. “I am not struck dumb.”
“Deny it all you want, but that man has gotten under your skin. Not that I blame you. He is handsome. In a cold way. However, in all the seasons we’ve passed together, I’ve never seen you this lively with anyone before.”
Elowyn popped the rest of the éclair into her mouth and chewed almost punishingly.
Lively . . .
She was pretty sure her friend wanted to use another word. Such as fiery. Or fascinated. Or possessed. Alarming. The trouble was, she didn’t know what to do with a man who made her feel both things at once—safe and unsteady, protected and utterly out of her depth. She’d spent five seasons trying to make that season the best, and each time, something had gone wrong. She’d found comfort in existing only at the edges of rooms where no one’s gaze swept twice.